Yaroslav by Ian McMichael

They couldn't avoid rowing,
their vein rivers manifestly flowing,
fine threads weaving the wild.
Until that wisdom tames,
ugly ice creaks and breaks,
uterrances, faint bonds.
Weave names to lay love down.

Saint Olaf by Ian McMichael

I was little and towered
over him, but came later to his crowd.
Found his pieces, gathered them.
If saints dye their grey hairs.
If they prey with pale girls.
If their bones the priests bless.
If their tracksuits match mine.

New Castle by Ian McMichael

Sworn brothers, like fuck let's row.
How once I held him down, swore with fists, so
going south he found this end.
Old end, no new blood oath,
old eyes, snake staring south
over glistening myth.
I swept his arms away.

At Stikklestad by Ian McMichael

Half stout, half mild, leave it there,
no need to row, to waste the land or bear
their lingering legacy.
At Stikklestad , drink-full,
a groggy sleep is all
a man needs to fail, fall.
How water washes all.